could
see that I was a pretty girl. I was fresh-looking, though dark. I was
like those wild flowers which grow without any art or culture, but with
gay, lively colouring. I had plenty of hair, which was almost black. On
looking at myself in the glass, though, I can truthfully say that I was
not very well pleased with myself. I was dark, my features were well
cut, but not finished. People said that it was the expression of my face
that made it interesting. I think this was true. I was gay but dreamy,
and my most natural expression was a meditative one. People said, too,
that in this absent-minded expression there was a fixed look which
resembled that of the serpent when fascinating his prey. That, at any
rate, was the far-fetched comparison of my provincial adorers."

They were not very far wrong, these provincial adorers. The portraits
of Aurore at this date show us a charming face of a young girl,
as fresh-looking as a child. She has rather long features, with a
delicately-shaped chin. She is not exactly pretty, but fascinating, with
those great dark eyes, which were her prominent feature, eyes which,
when fixed on any one, took complete possession of them--dreamy,
passionate eyes, sombre because the soul reflected in them had profound
depths.

It is difficult to define that soul, for it was so complex. To judge by
appearances, it was a very peaceful soul, and perhaps, too, it was in
reality peaceful. George Sand, who knew herself thoroughly, frequently
spoke of her laziness and of her apathy, traits peculiar to the natives
of Berry. Superficial observers looked no further, and her mother used
to call her "St. Tranquillity." The nuns, though, of her convent had
more perspicacity. They said, when speaking of her: "Still waters run
deep." Under the smooth surface they fancied that storms were gathering.
Aurore had within her something of her mother and of her grandmother,
and their opposite natures were blended in her. She had the calmness of
Marie-Aurore, but she also had the impetuousness of Sophie-Victoire,
and undoubtedly, too, something of the free and easy good humour of her
father, the break-neck young officer. It certainly is not surprising to
find a love of adventure in a descendant of Maurice de Saxe.

Beside all these inner contrasts, the observer was particularly struck
by her sudden changes of humour, by the way in which, after a fit of
melancholy sadness, she suddenly gave way to the most exuberant gaiety